glory of this perishing world. At least he
hoped so. To-night, importuned as he had been by scenes and emotions
quite other than ecclesiastical, Julius literally sought refuge in his
cassock. It represented "port after stormy seas"--home, after travel in
lands altogether foreign.

He took St. Augustine's _De Civitate Dei_ from its place in the book
shelves lining one side of the room. There should be peace in the soul,
surely, emancipation from questioning of transitory things in reading
of the City of God? But, alas, his attention strayed. That sense of
subdued excitement was upon him yet. He thought of the conversation at
dinner, of brilliant speeches he might have made, of the encouragement
of Katherine's smiling eyes and sympathetic speech, of the scene in the
gallery that morning, of Mary Cathcart's old-time love ditties. The
City of God was far off. All these were things very near at hand.
Notwithstanding the scanty folds of the cassock, they importuned him
still.

Pained at his own lack of poise and seriousness, Julius returned the
volume of St. Augustine to its place, and, sitting down at the
writing-table prepared to chronicle the day's events. Perhaps by
putting a statement of them on paper he could rid himself of their all
too potent influence. But his thought was tumultuous, words refused to
come in proper order and sequence; and Julius abhorred that erasures
should mar the symmetry of his pages. Impatiently he pushed the diary
from him. Clearly it, like the City of God, was destined to wait.

The guests had departed. He had heard the distant calling of voices in
friendly farewell, the rumble of departing wheels. The night was very
soft and mild. He would go out and walk the gray flags of the terrace,
till this unworthy restlessness gave place to reason and calm.

Passing along the narrow passage, he opened the door on to the
garden-hall. And there paused. The hall itself, and the inner side of
the carven arches of the arcade were in dense shadow. Beyond stretched
the terrace bathed in moonlight, which glittered on the polished leaves
of the little orange trees, on the leaded panes of the many windows,
and strangely transmuted the colours of the range of pot-flowers massed
beneath them along the base of the house. It was a fairy world upon
which Julius looked forth. Nor did it need suitable inhabitants. Pacing
slowly down the centre of the terrace came Richard and Katherine
Calmady, hand in hand. Tall,